ITALIAN    RHAPSODY 

AND    OTHER    POEMS    OF    ITALY 
By  ROBERT    UNDERWOOD   JOHNSON 


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HIGH  niaH3(JNv/ 

ov) 


Former  Ambassador  to  Italy 

Says  Nation  Needs  Verse 

to  Spur  Imagination. 


HIS  BIRTHDAY  TOMORROW 


Writes   Tribute   to    Roosevelt.wrq 


but  Views  Recognition  of 
Russia  as  Mistake. 


MALLARANNY   BEACH. 


Nothing  Is  here  but  beauty:    a  blue 

dome, 
Cloudless,    in   Ireland    the   land   of 

cloud; 
A  bluer  sea,  not  clamoring  with  the 

loud 
Homeric    music    of    the    waves    that 

roam 
The    rocks    and    inlets    white    with 

angry  foam, 
But   gentle   as   a  lion's   sleep;    yon 

proud 
Blue     sloping    headland,     firm    as 

though   it   plowed 

The  yielding  sea,  as  the  keen  share 
the  loam. 

'Twixt   here   and  home   nothing  bjit 

beauty  Ifes 
Across  the  lonely  leagues  from  land 

to  land. 
Ocean,  thou  confidant  of  smiles  and 

sighs, 
Tell    her    who    lingers    on    another 

strand     *. 

That  I  forget  not,  but  as  evening  dies 
I  write  a  name  of  beauty  on  the 

sand. 
ROBERT  UNDERWOOD  JOHNSON 


— 
A    SONG    OF   AGE. 

What  is  it  that  makes  a  lifetime?; 

To  hold  the  manly  strength 
Of  youth's  rejoicing  strife^Jme 

Till  it  reaches  the  Psalmjsj;  lengtl, 
Is   it  worth   the   strain   of  'the  I 
years'  pain 

To  keep  the  body  alive?    1 
Would  you  rather  be  old  at  eighty 

Or  young  at  thirty-five? 

The  fairest  tree  in  the  orchard 

That  makes  the  Maytime'  bright,   , 
By  pest  and  the  tempest  tortured,    ' 

May  droop  with  early  blight. 
And  many  a  flame  of  a  promisin, 
name 

That  men  thought  might  survive 
To  light  the  world  at  eighty, 

Dies  down  at  thirty-five. 

But  if  still  the  heart  beat  steady,     '^ 

With  Love  as  its  only  note, 
And  the  world's  need  finds  you  ready 

To  pull  in  the  common  lioat; 
And  you've  learned  that  Beauty's  the 
helpmate  of  Duty' 

To  keep  the  soul  alive: 
Would  you  rather  be  young  at  eighty 

Than  old  at  thirty-five? 
ROBERT  UNDERWOOD  JOHNSON, 


ITALIAN  RHAPSODY 

AND  OTHER  POEMS  OF  ITALY 


THE  OLD  VALENTINE. 

When  you  were  at  your  fair  fourteen, 

And  February  was  at  his 
(Ah,  nothing  sweeter  could  have  been, 

As- nothing  sweeter  is), 
There  came  among  your  valentines 
One  all  made  up  of  loving  lines 

With  Cupid's  darts  . 

Through  bleeding  hearts 
(Were  his  initials  accidental?) 

You  kissed  the  rhymes 

A  hundred  times 
And  never  thought  them  sentimental. 

At  forty— life's  most  lonely.  age- 
When  valentines  come  not, 

Go  seek  again  that  treasured  page 
Unseen  but  unforgot. 

One  poignant  moment  let  a  tear 

Flow  for  a  boy's  love  so  sincere: 
That  tribute  give 
Whereby  shall  live 

The  lost,  so  tender  and  so  gentle. 
Thank  heaven  that  still 
'Mid  prose  and  ill, 

You  can,  in  dream,  be  sentimental. 

ROBERT,  UNDERWOOD  JOHNSON* 


Cbe  Butbor's 

previous  ipoems 

* 

SAINT-GAUDENS:  AN  ODE,  AND  OTHER 
VERSE.  By  ROBERT  UNDERWOOD  JOHNSON. 
Published  by  the  Author,  70  Fifth  Avenue, 
New  York:  i6mo.  Pp.  361.  Price  $2.00, 
postage  prepaid.  This  is  the  fourth  edition  of 
the  author's  collected  poems,  and  includes  the 
volumes  "The  Winter  Hour"  and  "Songs  of 
Liberty,"  now  separately  out  of  print. 

POEMS  OF  WAR  AND  PEACE.  By  ROBERT 
UNDERWOOD  JOHNSON.  Second  edition,  with 
many  new  poems,  includingThe  Panama  Ode, 
The  Corridors  of  Congress,  Rheims,  Embat 
tled  France,  The  Sword  of  Lafayette,  The  New 
Slavery,  The"Crowned  Republic,  and  other 
Poems  of  the  Great  War.  New  York:  Pub 
lished  by  the  Author  at  70  Fifth  Avenue.  1 6mo. 
Pp.  1 14.  Price  $1.50,  postage  prepaid. 

NOTE :  The  price  of  the  present  volume  is 
$1.00,  postage  prepaid. 


ITALIAN  RHAPSODY 

AND  OTHER  POEMS  OF  ITALY 


BY 
ROBERT  UNDERWOOD  JOHNSON 

MEMBER  OF  THE  AMERICAN  ACADEMY  OF 
ARTS  AND  LETTERS 

AUTHOR  OF  "  SAINT-GAUDBNS  :    AN  ODE,  AND  OTHER  VERSE," 

"  POEMS  OF  WAR  AND  PEACE"  ;    CO-EDITOR  "  BATTLES 

AND    LEADERS  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR" 


0 


4** 


NEW  YORK  : 

PUBLISHED  BY  THE  AUTHOR 
AT  70  FIFTH  AVENUE 

'9»7  __  '1 

B    U.  Johnson's  WU1  Filed 

in  Surrogate  3  Couit.     in     v 
state     at     lss 


in     urr 

valued     his     estate     at     l^ss 

$10,000.  ° 


Copyright,  1917,  by 
ROBERT  UNDKKWOOD  JOHNSON 


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CONTENTS 

PAGE 

"A  CITY  WITH  A  SOUL"  (Florence)       ......  I 

ITALIAN  RHAPSODY 3 

LOVE  IN  ITALY n 

SALVINI 12 

THE  HOUR  OF  AWE 13 

TITIAN'S  Two  LOVES,  IN  THE  BORGHESE 15 

BROWNING  AT  ASOLO  (Inscribed  to  his  Friend 

Mrs.  Arthur  Bronson) .17 

To  ONE  WHO  NEVER  GOT  TO  ROME  (Edmund 

Clarence  Stedman) 19 

THE  SPANISH  STAIRS 23 

THE  NAME  WRIT  IN  WATER  (Piazza  di  Spagna,  Rome). 

SPRING  AT  THE  VILLA  CONTI        26 

COMO  IN  APRIL 28 

THE  VINES  THAT  MISSED  THE  BEES.   (To  Count  Cosimo 

Rucellai  of  Florence  with  a  copy  of  his  ancestor 

Giovanni  Rucellai's  poem  "The  Bees")     ....  29 
THE  POET  IN  THE  CHILDREN'S  EYES.  (To  Countess  Edith 

Rucellai,  descendant  of  Joseph  Rodman  Drake)     .  30 

FAREWELL  TO  ITALY 31 

THE  CROWNED  REPUBLIC 35 


, 


IN    AN    ARBOR,    ASOLO 
By  Percy  G.  Pinkerton 


My  perfumed  jasmine-tent  commands 
An  outlook  vast  along  the  lands. 
Northward,  green  hills  confront    my 

gaze, 

Shrouded  In  filmy  morning  haze. 
Their    smooth    sides    take    a    deeper 

dye 

As  the  red  sun  deserts  the  sky, 
When   clouds,   like  poppy-petals,   fall 
And  fade  around  a  purple  wall 
Whose  top  or>e  fain 


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ano   ui     iseSy   eiPPlK    em   jo   SJB/A 

-ap  s,iaBaq  siq  oj  SuipaoooB  poo  diqs 


As  his  own  publisher,  Robert  l';i(h  r- 
wood  Jo<hnson  is  issuing  from  his  office 
in  Jjew  York  a  volume  of  his  hitherto 
uncollected  poems  entitled  "The  Pact  of 
Honor  and  Other  Poems  Grave  or  Gay." 
They  will  include  the  title  poem,  apropos 
of  the  Briand-Kellogg  Treaty;  "The  New 
Olympians"  (the  aviators);  "The  Hall  of 
Fame,  at  Night";  personal  poems  on 
Eleonora  Duse.  Raquel  Meller.  Henrik 
Ibsen;  impressions  of  travel  in  Italy, 
France  and  Switzerland;  and  "A  Grave 
at  Stockbridge,"  dealing  in  part  \vith  the 
subject  of  immortality.  Lighter  poems  in 
the  collection  are  "The  Young  Chevalier," 
the  ballad  of  Lindbergh,  "The  Amateur 
Circus"  and  "A  Sentimental  Journey  in 
I  Ireland."  E.  F.  E. 


TO  ALL  WHO  LOVE  ITALY 


Johnson  Beads  His  Sonnet. 

then  Robert  Underwood  Johnson, 
iaring  the  academic  robes  bestowed 
ion  him  when  he  received  the  de- 
je  of  Doctor  of  Letters  from.  New 
rk  University,  read  the  following 
met  written  by  him  for  the  occa- 
n:  ^Ju  • 

HENRIK  IBSEX. 


STREPHON  TO  CHLOE. 


A   Tribute   of   an   Idealist. 

y  for   bare   forma  of  thought  should  we 

contend  ? 

claim  him  realist;  I  hail  him  here, 
thful,    acute,    alive,    profound,    sincere. 
rcMight   of   souls  where   vice   and  virtue 

bleerf, 

J  of  the  faltering  conscience  lest  it  bend 
ore  the  blast  of  circumstance,  in  fear, 
loclast    of    cant:    ironic    seer; 

fiiny  to  the  people,   but  their  friend., 
reining  of  Dante  is  not  far  to  seek 
fen  his   grim   faithful  surgery  we   see 
Iding  wrong  from  right  and  strong  from 

weak. 

fired  to  Sophocles  he  well  may  be, 
en    to    the    Three    Fates    of    the    ancient 

Greek 
adds  a  fourth,  in  man's  heredity. 

'hen  came  more  Norwegian  music, 
icluding  with  the  Norwegian  na- 


Dear,  not  tomorrow  but  today 
Give  me  the  laggard  word  I  crave 

Love  is  no  jewel  put  away 
In  velvet  silence;  wear  it  brave 

Upon    your    bosom,    joy-entwined. 

Oh,  hasten,  hasten  to  be  kind. 

Come,   honor  love  with  use  today; 

Make  it  a  gift  and  not  a  debt. 
See  how  the  hours  speed  away; 

Shall  each  be  laden  with  regret? 
Beauty  was  made  not  for  the  blind; 
Then  hasten,  hasten  to  be  kind. 

I  suffer  now,  but  how  much  more 
Shall  you,  when,   in  Time's  retro 
spect, 

You  shall  your  cruelty  deplore 
On     which     your     happiness     was 

wrecked? 

Lest  love  shall  leave  you  far  behind, 
Hasten,  beloved,  to  be  kind. 
ROBERT  UNjDJBS.W,Ope  JQHU  gQJS 
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"A  CITY  WITH  A  SOUL" 
(FLORENCE) 

GAY  or  gloomy  with  her  skies, 

Gray  Paris  like  an  opal  lies 

Sparkling  on  the  front  of  France. 

Avignon  doth  hold  a  lance 

In  a  tourney-list  with  Nimes. 

Fair  Seville  basks  in  helpless  dream 

Of  conquest,  as  in  caged  air 

Dreams  the  tamed  lion  of  his  lair. 

Regal  Genoa  still  adorns 

Her  ancient  throne ;  and  Pisa  mourns. 

Now  we  traverse  holy  ground 

Where  three  miracles  are  found : 

One  of  beauty — when  with  dyes 

Of  her  own  sunset  Venice  vies. 

One  of  beauty  and  of  power — 

Rome,  the  crumbled  Babel-tower 

Of  centuries  piled  on  centuries — 

Scant  refuge  from  Oblivion's  seas 

That  swept  about  her.    And  the  third? — 

O  heart,  fly  homeward  like  a  bird, 

And  look,  from  Bellosguardo's  goal, 

Upon  a  city  with  a  soul ! 

Who  that  has  climbed  that  heavenly  height 

When  all  the  west  was  gold  with  light, 


"A   CITY  WITH  A  SOUL" 

And  nightingales  adown  the  slope 
To  listening  Love  were  lending  hope, 
Till  they  by  vesper  bells  were  drowned, 
As  though  by  censers  filled  with  sound — 
Who — who  would  wish  a  worthier  end 
To  every  journey?  or  not  blend 
With  those  who  reverently  count 
This  their  Transfiguration  Mount? 

—From  "The  Winter  Hour." 


SAVORING    JOY. 

Haste   not  to  joy.   harbor   the   sweet 

suspense. 
The  sun  surprises  not  the  world  will 

But'dawns  with   ever-lessening  retl 

NorTthe  starry  curtain  of  the  nigh 
X   fall    ungcntly.      Yon    full    rive 

1  often    at     some    meditativ 

TheProse  holds  back  its  glory  in  th 

bud 
And   Nature's  temple  has   its   ves 

bule. 
So   let   your   wooing   be:     first,   with 

such  look 
That   Fate   must   wait   till   your  one 

word  be  spoken; 
Then   choice;    then   tenderness;    and 

then  the  token 
Of     clasping    hands,     caressing    • 

caressed. 
When  you  have  turned  these  pages 

Love's  book 
The  loved  one  may  peruse  with  yov 


UNDERWOOD  JOHNSON. 


ITALIAN  RHAPSODY 


ITALIAN  RHAPSODY* 


DEAR  Italy !    The  sound  of  thy  soft  name 

Soothes  me  with  balm  of  Memory  and  Hope. 
Mine,  for  the  moment,  height  and  sweep  and  slope 
That  once  were  mine.    Supreme  is  still  the  aim 
To  flee  the  cold  and  gray 
Of  our  December  day, 

And  rest  where  thy  clear  spirit  burns  with  unconsuming 
flame. 

ii 

There  are  who  deem  remembered  beauty  best, 
And  thine,  imagined,  fairer  is  than  sight 
Of  all  the  charms  of  other  realms  confessed, 
Thou  miracle  of  sea  and  land  and  light. 
Was  it  lest,  envying  thee, 
The  world  unhappy  be, 
Benignant  Heaven  gave  to  all  the  all-consoling  Night? 

*  Read  before  the  Mother  Chapter  of  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa 
Fraternity,  William  and  Mary  College,  February  10,  1902. 


4  ITALIAN  RHAPSODY 

ill 

Remembered  beauty  best?    Who  reason  so? 
Not  lovers,  yearning  to  the  same  dumb  star 
That  doth  disdain  their  passion — who,  afar, 
Seek  touch  and  voice  in  velvet  winds  and  low. 
No,  storied  Italy, 
Not  thine  that  heresy, 

Thou  who  thyself  art  fairer  far  than  Fancy  e'er  can 
show. 

IV 

To  me  thou  art  an  ever-brooding  spell ; 

An  old  enchantment,  exorcised  of  wrong; 
A  beacon,  whereagainst  the  wings  of  Song 
Are  bruised  so,  they  cannot  fly  to  tell ; 
A  mistress,  at  whose  feet 
A  myriad  singers  meet, 

To  find  thy  beauty  the  despair  of  measures  full  and 
sweet. 


Of  old,  ere  caste  or  custom  froze  the  heart, 

What  tales  of  thine  did  Chaucer  re-indite, — 
Of  Constance,  and  Griselda,  and  the  plight 

Of  pure  Cecilia, — all  with  joyous  art ! 


ITALIAN  RHAPSODY  5 

Oh,  to  have  journeyed  down 
To  Canterbury  town, 

And  known,  from  lips  that  touched  thy  robe,  that  triad 
of  renown! 

VI 

Fount  of  Romance  whereat  our  Shakspere  drank ! 
Through  him  the  loves  of  all  are  linked  to  thee 
By  Romeo's  ardor,  Juliet's  constancy. 
He  sets  the  peasant  in  the  royal  rank ; 

Shows  under  mask  and  paint 
Kinship  of  knave  and  saint, 

And  plays  on  stolid  man  with  Prospero's  wand  and 
Ariel's  prank. 

VII 

Another  English  foster-child  hadst  thou 

When  Milton  from  the  breast  of  thy  delight 
Drew  inspiration.     With  a  vestal's  vow 

He  fed  the  flame  caught  from  thy  sacred  light. 
And  when  upon  him  lay 
The  long  eclipse  of  day, 

Thou  wert  the  memory-hoarded  treasure  of  his  doomed 
sight. 


ITALIAN  RHAPSODY 


VIII 

Name  me  a  poet  who  has  trod  thy  soil ; 

He  is  thy  lover,  ever  hastening  back, 
With  thee  forgetting  weariness  and  toil, 
The  nightly  sorrow  for  the  daily  lack. 
How  oft  our  lyric  race 
Looked  last  upon  thy  face ! 

Oh,  would  that  i  were  worthy  thus  to  die  in  thine 
embrace ! 

IX 

Oh,  to  be  kin  to  Keats,  but  as  a  part 

Of  the  same  Roman  earth! — to  sleep,  unknown, 
Not  far  from  Shelley  of  the  virgin  heart, 

Where  not  one  tomb  is  envious  of  a  throne; 
Where  the  proud  pyramid, 
To  brighter  glory  bid, 

Gives  Cestius  his  longed-for  fame,  marking  immortal 
Art. 


Or,  in  loved  Florence,  to  repose  beside 
Our  trinity  of  singers !    Fame  enough 
To  neighbor  lordly  Landor,  noble  Clough, 

And  her,  our  later  sibyl,  sorrow-eyed. 


ITALIAN  RHAPSODY  7 

Oh,  tell  me — not  their  arts, 
But  their  Italian  hearts 

Won  for  their  dust  that  narrow  oval,  than  the  world 
more  wide ! 

XI 

So  might  I  lie  where  Browning  should  have  lain, 

My  "Italy"  for  all  the  world  to  read, 
Like  his  on  the  palazzo.    For  thy  pain 
In  losing  from  thy  rosary  that  bead, 
England  accords  thee  room 
Around  his  minster  tomb — 

A  province  conquered  of  thy  soul,  and  not  an  Arab 
slain ! 

XII 

Then  take  these  lines,  and  add  to  them  the  lay, 

All  inarticulate,  I  to  thee  indite : 
The  sudden  longing  on  the  sunniest  day, 

The  happy  sighing  in  the  stormiest  night, 
The  tears  of  love  that  creep 
From  eyes  unwont  to  weep, 

Full  with  remembrance,  blind  with  joy,  and  with 
devotion  deep. 


8  ITALIAN  RHAPSODY 

XIII 

Absence  from  thee  is  such  as  men  endure 

Between  the  glad  betrothal  and  the  bride ; 
Or  like  the  years  that  Youth,  intense  and  sure, 
From  his  ambition  to  his  goal  must  bide. 
And  if  no  more  I  may 
Mount  to  Fiesole  .  .  . 

Oh,  then  were  Memory  meant  for  those  to  whom  is 
Hope  denied. 

XIV 

Show  me  a  lover  who  hath  drunk  by  night 
Thy  beauty-potion,  as  the  grape  the  dew : 
'T  were  little  wonder  he  were  poet  too, 
With  wine  of  song  in  unexpected  might, 
While  moonlit  cloister  calls 
With  plashy  fountain-falls, 

Or  darkened  Arno  moves  to  music  with  its  mirrore 
light. 

xv 

Who  can  withstand  thee?    What  distress  or  care 
But  yields  to  Naples,  or  that  long  day-dream 

We  know  as  Venice,  where  alone  more  fair 

Noon  is  than  night;  where  every  lapping  streai 


ITALIAN  RHAPSODY  9 

Wooes  with  a  soft  caress 
Our  new-world  weariness, 

And  every  ripple  smiles  with  joy  at  sight  of  scene  so 
rare. 


XVI 

The  mystery  of  thy  charm — ah,  who  hath  guessed? 
'T  was  ne'er  divined  by  day  or  shown  in  sleep ; 
Yet  sometimes  Music,  floating  from  her  steep, 
Holds  to  our  lips  a  chalice  brimmed  and  blest : 
Then  know  we  that  thou  art 
Of  the  Ideal  part— 

Of  Man's  one  thirst  that  is  not  quenched,  drink  he 
howe'er  so  deep. 

XVII 

Thou  human-hearted  land,  whose  revels  hold 
Man  in  communion  with  the  antique  days, 
And  summon  him  from  prosy  greed  to  ways 
Where  Youth  is  beckoning  to  the  Age  of  Gold ; 
How  thou  dost  hold  him  near 
And  whisper  in  his  ear 
Of  the  lost  Paradise  that  lies  beyond  the  alluring  haze ! 


10  ITALIAN  RHAPSODY 

XVIII 

In  tears  I  tossed  my  coin  from  Trevi's  edge,— 
A  coin  unsordid  as  a  bond  of  love, — 
And,  with  the  instinct  of  the  homing  dove, 
I  gave  to  Rome  my  rendezvous  and  pledge. 
And  when  imperious  Death 
Has  quenched  my  flame  of  breath, 
Oh,  let  me  join  the  faithful  shades  that  throng  that 
fount  above. 


II 


LOVE  IN  ITALY 

THEY  halted  at  the  terrace  wall ; 

Below,  the  towered  city  lay ; 
The  valley  in  the  moonlight's  thrall 

Was  silent  in  a  swoon  of  May. 
As  hand  to  hand  spoke  one  soft  word 

Beneath  the  friendly  ilex-tree, 
They  knew  not,  of  the  flame  that  stirred, 

What  part  was  Love,  what  Italy. 

They  knew  what  makes  the  moon  more  bright 

Where  Beatrice  and  Juliet  are, — 
The  sweeter  perfume  in  the  night, 

The  lovelier  starlight  in  the  star ; 
And  more  that  glowing  hour  did  prove, 

Beneath  the  sheltering  ilex-tree, — 
That  Italy  transfigures  Love, 

As  Love  transfigures  Italy. 


12  SALVINI 


SALVINI 

"DEAD  is  old  Greece,"  they  mourned  ere  yet  arose 
This  Greek — this  oak  of  old  Achaian  graft 
Seed-sown  where  westward  tempests  wept  and 

laughed, 

As  now  when  some  great  gust  of  heaven  blows 
From  lair  levantine.    How  the  giant  grows! — 
Not  to  lone  ruin  of  a  withered  shaft, 
But  quaffing  life  in  every  leafy  draught, — 
Fathered  by  Storm  and  mothered  by  Repose. 

Nay,  doubt  the  Greeks  are  gone  till,  this  green 

crest 

In  splendor  fallen,  round  the  wrack  shall  be 
Prolonged,  like  memories  of  a  noble  guest, 

The  phantom  glory  of  the  actor's  day. 
Then,  musing  on  Olympus,  men  shall  say 
The  myth  of  Jove  took  rise  from  lesser  majesty. 


THE  HOUR  OF  AWE  13 


THE  HOUR  OF  AWE 

NOT  in  the  five-domed  wonder 
Where  the  soul  of  Venice  lies, 

When  the  sun  cleaves  the  gloom  asunder 
With  pathways  to  Paradise, 

And  the  organ's  melodious  thunder 
Summons  you  to  the  skies ; 

Not  in  that  rarest  hour, 

When  over  the  Arno's  rush 

The  City  of  Flowers'  flower 
Looms  in  the  sunset  flush, 

And  the  poignant  stroke  from  the  tower 
Pierces  the  spirit's  hush; 

Not  Rome's  high  vault's  devising 
That  builded  the  heavens  in, 

When  you  know  not  the  anthem's  rising 
From  the  song  of  the  cherubin, 

Where,  sight  and  soul  surprising, 
Dusk  utters  your  dearest  sin : 


14  THE  HOUR  OF  AWE 

Not  these — nor  the  star-sown  splendor, 
Nor  the  deep  wood's  mystery, 

Nor  the  sullen  storm's  surrender 
To  the  ranks  of  the  leaping  sea, 

Nor  the  joy  of  the  springtime  tender 
On  Nature's  breast  to  be; 

But  to  find  in  a  woman's  weeping 
— — »  The  look  you  have  longed  to  find, 
And  know  that  in  Time's  safe-keeping, 

Through  all  the  ages  blind, 
x—— -  Was  Love,  like  a  winged  seed,  sleeping, 
For  you  and  the  waiting  wind. 


TITIAN'S  TWO  LOVES,  IN  THE  BORGHESE     15 


TITIAN'S  TWO  LOVES,  IN  THE  BORGHESE 

ONE  forgets  not  the  first  dead  he  sorrowed  over; 
One  forgets  not  the  first  kiss  of  the  first  lover. 
Not  the  dust  of  ages  could  remembrance  cover 
How  in  Titian's  golden  kingdom  first  I  strayed. 

Oh,  that  Roman  morning's  azure,  softly  sifting 
Through  the  gray,  the  while  the  rapt  eye  caught  the 

rifting 

Of  the  sun's  rich  fire  where  molten  mists  were  drifting, 
As  one  looks  upon  an  opal  gently  swayed. 

Ah !  but  in  the  palace  there  was  sun  more  golden ! 
Art  for  once  to  Nature  was  no  more  beholden. 
Man  to  his  beloved  had  the  passion  olden 

Sung  in  color,  and  his  mighty  Love  grew  Fame. 

For  I  guessed,  while  hotly  others  were  contending 
Which  was  Love  Divine,  that  each  to  each  was  lending 
Supplemental  graces  for  a  perfect  blending — 
That  to  paint  one  twofold  woman  was  his  aim. 


l6    TITIAN'S  TWO  LOVES,  IN  THE  BORGHESE 

One  without  the  other's  beauty  were  but  torso : 
Human  needs  divine,  ah,  yes,  and — maybe  more  so- 
By  divine  is  needed.     (Singing  down  the  Corso 
I,  elate,  enthralled,  went,  happy  just  to  be!) 

Yet  till  thee  at  last  I  knew — each  blended  feature 
Where  the  two  Loves  meet  in  rightly  balanced  nature  - 
Never  had  I  known  a  tithe  of  Titian's  creature : 
God,  the  master  limner,  painted  both  in  thee. 


BROWNING  AT  ASOLO  17 


BROWNING  AT  ASOLO 
(INSCRIBED  TO  HIS  FRIEND  MRS.  ARTHUR  BRONSON) 

THIS  is  the  loggia  Browning  loved, 

High  on  the  flank  of  the  friendly  town; 

These  are  the  hills  that  his  keen  eye  roved, 
The  green  like  a  cataract  leaping  down 
To  the  plain  that  his  pen  gave  new  renown. 

There  to  the  West  what  a  range  of  blue ! — 
The  very  background  Titian  drew 

To  his  peerless  Loves.     O  tranquil  scene ! 
Who  than  thy  poet  fondlier  knew 

The  peaks  and  the  shore  and  the  lore  between? 

See !  yonder  's  his  Venice — the  valiant  Spire, 

Highest  one  of  the  perfect  three, 
Guarding  the  others :  the  Palace  choir, 
The  Temple  flashing  with  opal  fire — 

Bubble  and  foam  of  the  sunlit  sea. 


l8  BROWNING  AT  ASOLO 

Yesterday  he  was  part  of  it  all — 

Sat  here,  discerning  cloud  from  snow 
In  the  flush  of  the  Alpine  afterglow, 
Or  mused  on  the  vineyard  whose  wine-stirred  row 

Meets  in  a  leafy  bacchanal. 

Listen  a  moment — how  oft  did  he ! — 

To  the  bells  from  Fontalto's  distant  tower 

Leading  the  evening  in  ...  ah,  me ! 

Here  breathes  the  whole  soul  of  Italy 

As  one  rose  breathes  with  the  breath  of  the  bower. 

Sighs  were  meant  for  an  hour  like  this 

When  joy  is  keen  as  a  thrust  of  pain. 

Do  you  wonder  the  poet's  heart  should  miss 

This  touch  of  rapture  in  Nature's  kiss 
And  dream  of  Asolo  ever  again? 

"Part  of  it  yesterday,"  we  moan? 

Nay,  he  is  part  of  it  now,  no  fear. 
What  most  we  love  we  are  that  alone. 
(His  body  lies  under  the  Minster  stone, 

But  the  love  of  the  warm  heart  lingers  here. 

"LA  MURA,"  ASOLO,  June  3,  1892. 


TO  ONE  WHO  NEVER  GOT  TO  ROME        19 

TO  ONE  WHO  NEVER  GOT  TO  ROME 

(EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN) 

[ON  his  long-deferred  and  only  trip  to  Italy  Stedman  en 
tered  the  country  from  the  north  for  what  proved  to  be  a 
very  brief  sojourn,  for  soon  after  reaching  Venice  he  was 
suddenly  obliged  to  return  to  America.  It  remained  his 
cherished  desire  to  see  the  Eternal  City,  and  the  Roman 
Committee  of  the  Keats-Shelley  Memorial  long  hoped  that 
he  might  be  present  at  the  proposed  dedication  of  the  Keats 
House,  contemplated  for  the  23d  of  February,  1908.  He 
died  five  weeks  before  that  day,  when  the  lines  which  fol 
low  were  written.  As  the  active  and  devoted  Chairman  of 
the  American  Committee  he  took  a  leading  part  in  this 
project.  Probably  his  last  words  written  for  publication  on 
a  literary  topic  were  in  praise  of  the  two  poets,  to  which  he 
added  a  transcription  from  "Ariel,"  his  ode  on  Shelley.] 

You  who  were  once  bereft  of  Rome 
With  but  the  Apennines  between, 

And  went  no  more  beyond  the  foam, 

But  loved  your  Italy  at  home 
As  others  loved  her  seen : 

You  knew  each  old  imperial  shaft 
With  sculpture  laureled  to  the  blue ; 

Where  martyr  bled  and  tyrant  laughed ; 

Where  Horace  his  Falernian  quaffed, 
And  where  the  vintage  grew. 


20        TO  ONE  WHO  NEVER  GOT  TO  ROME 

The  Forum's  half -unopened  book 

You  would  have  pondered  well  and  long ; 
And  loved  St.  Peter's  misty  look, 
With  vesper  chantings  in  some  nook 
Of  far-receding  song. 


Oft  had  you  caught  the  silver  gleams 
Of  Roman  fountains.    To  your  art 
They  add  no  music.    Trevi  teems 
With  not  more  free  or  bounteous  streams 
Than  did  your  generous  heart. 


I  hoped  that  this  Muse-hallowed  day 

Might  find  your  yearning  dream  come  true 

That  you  might  see  the  moonlight  play 

On  ilex  and  on  palace  gray 
As  't  were  alone  for  you;  — 


That  your  white  age  might  disappear 

Within  the  whiteness  of  the  night, 
While  the  late  strollers,  lending  ear 
To  your  young  joy,  would  halt  and  cheer 
At  such  a  happy  wight ;  — 


21 


That  you, — whose  toil  was  never  done, — 
Physicianed  by  the  Land  of  Rest, 

Might,  like  a  beggar  in  the  sun, 

Watch  idly  the  green  lizard  run 
From  out  his  stony  nest; — 

That  you,  from  that  high  parapet 

That  crowns  the  graceful  Spanish  Stairs, 

(Whose  cadence,  as  to  music  set, 

Moving  like  measured  minuet, 

Would  charm  your  new- world  cares), 


Might  see  the  shrine  you  helped  to  save ; 

And  yonder  blest  of  cypresses, 
That  proud  above  your  poets  wave. 
Warder  of  all  our  song,  you  gave 

What  loyalty  to  these ! 


The  path  to  Adonais'  bed, 

That  pilgrims  ever  smoother  wear, 
Who  could  than  you  more  fitly  tread? — 
Or  with  more  right  from  Ariel  dead 

The  dark  acanthus  bear? 


22       TO  ONE  WHO  NEVER  GOT  TO  ROME 

Alas !  your  footstep  could  not  keep 

Your  fond  hope's  rendezvous,  brave  soul ! 

Yet,  if  our  last  thoughts  ere  we  sleep 

Be  couriers  across  the  deep 
To  greet  us  at  the  goal, 

Who  knows  but  now,  aloof  from  ills, 
The  heavenly  vision  that  you  see — 
The  towers  on  the  sapphire  hills, 
The  song,  the  golden  light — fulfils 
Your  dream  of  Italy ! 


THE  SPANISH  STAIRS  23 


THE  SPANISH  STAIRS 

[Ix  will  be  recalled  that  the  house  in  which  Keats  died 
adjoins  the  Spanish  Stairs  in  Rome.  It  has  been  proposed 
to  remove  the  fountain  below  them  to  make  room  for  the 
tramway  in  the  piazza.] 

ROME,  symbol  of  all  change,  oh,  change  not  here ! 
Thou,  ever  avid  of  beauty,  who  shall  say 
Thou  hast  forsworn  it  in  a  vain  display 
And  blare  of  discord,  as  though  eager  ear 

Listening  for  nightingale  heard  chanticleer? 
Oh,  leave  these  sunny  stairs,  that  float  and  stray 
From  fountain  blithe  and  flowers'  rich  array 
To  beckoning  bells  and  chanting  nuns  anear. 

Of  all  the  dead  that  loved  them,  hear  that  voice 
Whose  sorrow  and  last  silence  once  they  knew, 
Whose  spirit  guards  them  with  his  flaming  theme, 

The  immortal  joy  of  beauty.    Oh,  rejoice, 
And  stay  thy  hand :  that  future  ages,  too, 
By  them  may  mount  to  heaven,  like  Jacob  in  his 
dream. 


PIAZZA  DI  SPAGNA, 

St.  Agnes'  Eve,  1003. 


24  THE  NAME  WRIT  IN  WATER 

THE  NAME  WRIT  IN  WATER 

(PIAZZA  DI  SPAGNA,  ROME) 
The  Spirit  of  the  Fountain  speaks: 

YONDER  's  the  window  my  poet  would  sit  in 
While  my  song  murmured  of  happier  days ; 

Mine  is  the  water  his  name  has  been  writ  in, 
Sure  and  immortal  my  share  in  his  praise. 

Gone  are  the  pilgrims  whose  green  wreaths  here  hung 

for  him, — 

Gone  from  their  fellows  like  bubbles  from  foam ; 
Long  shall  outlive  them  the  songs  have  been  sung  for 

him; 
Mine  is  eternal — or  Rome  were  not  Rome. 

Far  on  the  mountain  my  fountain  was  fed  for  him, 
Bringing  soft  sounds  that  his  nature  loved  best : 

Sighing  of  pines  that  had  fain  made  a  bed  for  him ; 
Seafaring  rills,  on  their  musical  quest ; 

Bells  of  the  fairies  at  eve,  that  I  rang  for  him ; 

Nightingale's  glee,  he  so  well  understood ; 
Chant  of  the  dryads  at  dawn,  that  I  sang  for  him ; 

Swish  of  the  snake  at  the  edge  of  the  wood. 


THE  NAME  WRIT  IN  WATER  25 

Little  he  knew  'twixt  his  dreaming  and  sleeping, 
The  while  his  sick  fancy  despaired  of  his  fame, 

What  glory  I  held  in  my  loverly  keeping : 
Listen !  my  waters  will  whisper  his  name. 


26  SPRING  AT  THE  VILLA  CONTI 


SPRING  AT  THE  VILLA  CONTI 

OF  Time  and  Nature  still  the  fairest  daughter, 

Low-voiced  Repose!     Here  thou  dost  ever  dwell, 

While  Fancy  wills  no  more  to  wander  on. 
With  how  few  simples  dost  thou  steep  the  sense, 
Holding  in  soft  suspense, 

Like  pauses  in  the  tolling  of  a  bell, 

The  beauty  coming  and  the  beauty  gone. 
Nothing  is  here  but  woods  and  water, 

Spaces,  and  stone,  and  a  sculptor's  wit 

Simply  to  fashion  it 
Into  one  long  line  of  many  niches, 
Whose  fountains  are  fed  by  the  rushing  riches 

That,  bowl  to  bowl,  from  the  woodland  pool 

Fall  in  a  rhythm  clear  and  strong, 

Singing  to  Nature  her  eldest  song, 

Prattling  their  paradox — restfully  restless. 
O  March,  with  never  a  moment  zestless, 

Nor  the  sun  too  warm  nor  the  shade  too  cool ! 
O  May  and  the  music  of  birds  now  nestless ! 

Come  soon  and  brood  o'er  the  woodland  pool ! 


SPRING  AT  THE  VILLA  CONTI  27 

(For  lover  or  nightingale  who  can  wait?  j 
Whenever  he  cometh  he  cometh  late.)     ^} 
The  light  plays  over  the  ilex  green, 
Turning  to  silver  the  somber  sheen, 

And  Spring  in  the  heart  of  the  day  doth  dwell 
As  the  thought  of  a  loved  one  dwells  with  me, 

And  only  three  cypresses  to  tell 
"This  is  not  Heaven,  but  Italy." 

FRASCATI,  March,  1903. 


28  COMO  IN  APRIL 


COMO  IN  APRIL 

THE  wind  is  Winter,  though  the  sun  be  Spring : 

The  icy  rills  have  scarce  begun  to  flow; 
The  birds  unconfidently  fly  and  sing. 

As  on  the  land  once  fell  the  northern  foe, 

The  hostile  mountains  from  the  passes  fling 
Their  vandal  blasts  upon  the  lake  below. 

Not  yet  the  round  clouds  of  the  Maytime  cling 

Above  the  world's  blue  wonder's  curving  show, 
And  tempt  to  linger  with  their  lingering. 

Yet  doth  each  slope  a  vernal  promise  know: 

See,  mounting  yonder,  white  as  angel's  wing, 
A  snow  of  bloom  to  meet  the  bloom  of  snow. 

Love,  need  we  more  than  our  imagining 

To  make  the  whole  year  May?    What  though 
The  wind  be  Winter  if  the  heart  be  Spring? 


THE  VINES  THAT  MISSED  THE  BEES 

(TO  COUNT  COSIMO  RUCELLAI  OF  FLORENCE  WITH  A 

COPY  OF  HIS  ANCESTOR  GIOVANNI  RUCELLAl's 

POEM  "THE  BEES") 

ONCE,  when  I  saw  the  tears  upon  your  vines 

You  told  me  they  were  "weeping"— but  for  what? 

I  find  their  secret  in  your  kinsman's  lines : 
They  missed  the  honeyed  music  he  has  caught. 

FLORENCE,  April,  1906. 


30       THE  POET  IN  THE  CHILDREN'S  EYES 


THE  POET  IN  THE  CHILDREN'S  EYES 

'TO  COUNTESS  EDITH  RUCELLAI,  DESCENDANT  OF  JOSEPH 

RODMAN   DRAKE,  —  IN   HER  ALBUM,    CONTAINING 

LINES   BY   BROWNING,   LONGFELLOW, 

LOWELL,  AND  OTHERS) 

THOU  of  a  poet's  blood,  and  many  a  tie 

Of  kin  or  friendship  with  the  singing  race : 

How  shall  I  dare,  without  a  throb  or  sigh, 

Near  these  lost  bards  beloved  my  name  to  place ! 

One  wish  I  offer,  though  with  halting  fingers : 
That  in  thy  brood,  of  eager  eyes  divine, 

The  poet  that  within  the  mother  lingers 
May  find  a  voice  worthy  the  deathless  line 

FLORENCE,  April,  1906. 


FAREWELL  TO  ITALY 


FAREWELL  TO  ITALY 

WE  lingered  at  Domo  d'Ossola — 
Like  a  last,  reluctant  guest — 

Where  the  gray-green  tide  of  Italy 
FloAvs  up  to  a  snowy  crest. 

The  world  from  that  Alpine  shoulder 
Yearns  toward  the  Lombard  plain — 

The  hearts  that  come,  with  rapture, 
The  hearts  that  go,  with  pain. 

Afar  were  the  frets  of  Milan ; 

Below,  the  enchanted  lakes; 
And — was  it  the  mist  of  the  evening, 

Or  the  mist  that  the  memory  makes? 

We  gave  to  the  pale  horizon 

The  Naples  that  evening  gives; 

We  reckoned  where  Rome  lies  buried, 
And  AVC  felt  where  Florence  lives. 


FAREWELL  TO  ITALY 

And  as  Hope  bends  low  at  parting 
For  a  death-remembered  tone, 

We  searched  the  land  that  Beauty 
And  Love  have  made  their  own. 

We  would  take  of  her  hair  some  ringlet, 
Some  keepsake  from  her  breast, 

And  catch  of  her  plaintive  music 
The  strain  that  is  tenderest. 

So  we  strolled  in  the  yellow  gloaming 
(Our  speech  with  musing  still) 

Till  the  noise  of  the  militant  village 
Fell  faint  on  Calvary  Hill. 

And  scarcely  our  mood  was  broken 

Of  near-impending  loss 
To  find  at  the  bend  of  the  pathway 

A  station  of  the  Cross. 

And  up  through  the  green  aisle  climbing 
(Each  shrine  like  a  counted  bead), 

We  heard  from  above  the  swaying 
And  mystical  chant  of  the  creed. 

Then  the  dead  seemed  the  only  living, 
And  the  real  seemed  the  wraith, 


FAREWELL  TO  ITALY 

And  we  yielded  ourselves  to  the  vision 
We  saw  with  the  eye  of  Faith. 

Then  she  said,  "Let  us  go  no  farther: 
'T  is  fit  that  we  make  farewell 

While  forest  and  lake  and  mountain 
Are  under  the  vesper  spell." 

As  we  rested,  the  leafy  silence 

Broke  like  a  cloud  at  play, 
And  a  browned  and  burdened  woman 

Passed,  singing,  down  the  way. 

'T  was  a  song  of  health  and  labor, — 
Of  childlike  gladness,  blent 

With  the  patience  of  the  toiler 
That  tyrants  call  content. 

"Nay,  this  is  the  word  we  have  waited," 

I  said,  "that  a  year  and  a  sea 
From  now,  in  our  doom  of  exile, 
Shall  echo  of  Italy." 

Just  then  what  a  burst  from  the  bosquet — 
As  a  bird  might  have  found  its  soul ! 

And  each  by  the  halt  of  the  heart-throb 
Knew  't  was  the  rossignol. 


33 


34  FAREWELL  TO  ITALY 

Then  we  drew  to  each  other  nearer 

And  drank  at  the  gray  wall's  verge 

The  sad,  sweet  song  of  lovers, — 
Their  passion  and  their  dirge. 

And  the  carol  of  Toil  below  us 
And  the  paean  of  Prayer  above 

Were  naught  to  the  song  of  Sorrow, 
For  under  the  sorrow  was  Love. 


Alas !  for  the  dear  remembrance 
We  chose  for  an  amulet : 

The  one  that  is  left  to  keep  it— 
Ah !  how  can  he  forget  ? 


THE  CROWNED  REPUBLIC  35 


THE  CROWNED  REPUBLIC 


FORGIVE  us,  Italy,  who  have  loved  thee  long, 
Daughter  of  Beauty,  Cynosure  of  Song, 
That  we  who  knew  thee  fair  should  not  have  known 
thee  strong. 

For  Beauty  is  no  weakling,  taking  odds 
From  earthly  Power  and  cringing  at  its  nods, 
But  giver  of  sovereign  laws  to  immemorial  gods. 

She  is  no  mere  contriver  of  design, 
Of  thrilling  color  or  uplifting  line; 
She  sings  within  the  soul  a  music  all  divine. 

And  when  she  sets  the  ardent  youth  aflame 
With  duty,  brooking  no  unworthy  aim, 
She  is  but  Justice  honored  by  another  name. 

ii 

We  should  have  read  the  roster  of  thy  great 
Who  from  mismated  fragments  inchoate 
The  fair  mosaic  made  of  thine  harmonious  state ; 

Alike  in  nothing  but  in  love  of  thee 
While  thou  wert  yet  a  dream  of  Liberty, 
They  gave  thee  all  they  were  and  all  they  hoped 
to  be: — 


36  THE  CROWNED  REPUBLIC 

He  of  Savoy,  first  man  and  then  a  king ; 
He  of  Caprera,  armed  with  David's  sling ; 
He  of  Turin,  who  won  with  wise  imagining ; 

He  of  the  Tuscan  vineyards,  firm  as  steel ; 
And  he  of  Genoa,  priest  of  the  common  weal, 
And  he  whose  voice  to  Venice  was  a  tocsin-peal. 

O  land  for  whom  thy  sons  were  fain  to  die 
As  lovers  are  to  live !    No  obloquy 
Their  secrets  could  unlock,  their  purpose  turn  awry. 

In  thy  deep  dungeons  Freedom  grew  to  might, 
Nourished  by  darkness  as  the  rose  by  light. 
Would  tyrants  conquer  Thought :  they  must  abolish 
Night. 

Behind  the  bars  where  Settembrini  dwelt, 
Beside  the  chains  whose  scars  Poerio  felt, 
Above  the  beds  bereaved  where  dauntless  women  knelt, 

Thine  image,  as  in  Dante's  vision,  shone — 
The  Italy  that  some  day  would  be  one, 
When  alien  yoke  was  cleft  and  cruel  sands  were  run. 


in 

Now,  when  the  old  oppressor  of  thy  land 
Had  weakly  chosen  by  his  side  to  stand 
Who  holds  the  torch  and  bribe  in  either  treacherous 
hand, 


THE  CROWNED  REPUBLIC  37 

Thought  they  to  fright  thee  by  war's  awful  price, 
Or  silence  thee  by  lure  of  paradise — 
Thee  with  thy  glorious  ancestry  of  sacrifice? 

Forgive  us,  we  were  over-slow  to  scan 
The  incredible  cunning  of  the  monstrous  plan 
Whereby  the  spider  State  has  set  its  web  for  Man ; 

But  fallen  are  the  scales,  and  now  our  heart 
That  with  thee  stormed  the  startled  Alps,  takes  part 
With  glad  and  welcome  aid  from  mint  and  mine  and 
mart. 

And,  haply,  on  thy  waves  our  ships  may  dare 
The  iron  shark  within  his  stealthy  lair 
Till  the  freed  seas  forget  what  late  was  their  despair. 

Oh,  fortunate  if  our  torn  flag  be  found 
Comrade  of  thine  on  some  embattled  ground 
Thenceforth  by  Garibaldi's  memory  made  renowned. 

What  name  in  all  thine  epic  history 
But  his  to  summon  us  and  trumpet  thee — 
Who  found  his  foster  land  what  thou  wert  born  to  be! 

Pillar  of  cloud  and  fire,  his  spirit  soar'th 
Above  thy  eager  legions  pressing  forth 
And  cheers  them  on  to  save  their  brothers  of  the  North. 

O  Crowned  Republic,  let  us  be  of  those 
Who  know  and  conquer  all  the  people's  foes — 
Without,  within— that  dare  the  gates  of  Freedom 
close. 

June  8,  1917. 


THE  WISTFUL  DAYS. 
What  is  there  wanting  in  the  spring? 

The  air  is  soft  as  yesteryear  ; 

The  happy-nested  green  is  here, 
And  half  the  world  is  on  the  wing. 

The  morning  beckons,  and  like  balm 

Are  westward  waters  blue  and  calm. 
Yet  something's  wanting  in  the  spring. 

What  is  it  wanting  in  the  spring  ? 

O,  April,  lover  to  us  all, 
What  is  so  poignant  in  thy  thrall 

When  children's  merry  voices  ring  ? 
What  haunts  us  in  the  cooing  dove 

More  subtle  than  the  speech  of  love, 
What  nameless  lack  or  loss  of  spring  ? 

Let  youth  go  dally  with  the  spring. 

Call  her  the  dear,  the  fair,  the  young ; 
And  all  her  graces  ever  sung 

Let  him,  once  more  rehearsing,  sing. 
They  know,  who  keep  a  broken  tryst. 

Till  something  from  the  spring  be  missed 
We  have  not  truly  known  the  spring. 

—Robert  Underwood  Johnson. 


B< 


XLi  V  JldN JUN  V*     1  JLULiN  (M  Jit 


New  England 
voice  was  beat 
and    sympathy 
aspect  of  firr. 
He  was  a  mar 
and  of  democj 
was    without 
had  any  vanij 
out  of  him  <bj 
was  subjected 
the  case  of  the 
,  newspapers-J 
the  World 
a 


ara 


dises   of   a   Pi 


-JnpicI 


sip    uosIrAi    ssd- 

"U     X«nBO 


MTW    OT^TIC 


rings  of  gold,  they  shall  attire  themselves 
with  green  robes,  of  satin  and  well-spun 
silk. 

"  'In  turn  they  shall  be  offered  basin.- 
ol  gold  and  goblets  filled  with  the  desire 
ol  the  senses,  things  which  delight  the  eye. 

"  'Wonderful  shall  be  their  reward,  ad 
mirable  their  place  of  rest.' 

"As  I  listened  to  this  promise  I  plucked 
from  the  grass  one  of  the  jewelled  vases 
which  decked  the  earth  ;  and  then  I  iearned 
that  the  yellow  tulip  of  Persia  has  the 
scent  and  color  of  autumn  pears^' 

Here,  yeu  see,  is  no  traveler  .Intent  upon 
filling  a  notebook  with  more  or  less  in- 


the  quiet  aban 
fall  in  ruin, 
to  crown  the 
a  halo  of  lighi 

"Each    ever 
Sultan    Bajazc 
to  his  seraglio 
to  the  hands 
of  the  dust  of 

"Xow  this  d 
garments  and 
ing  treated  lik 
was  swept  tc 
Sultan's  pages 
to  His  Majest; 


Robert  E.  Rogers 

iWhen  a  considerable  time  elapses  between  a 

i   •  .  * 


in  the  public  service,  ar 
it  believed  to  be  in  the 
welfare." 

He  was  co-founder 
movement  to  make  the  1 
ment,  perhaps  one  of 
achievements. 

Designated  Poet 
Laureate  of  Amer 


In  a  word,  he  was  { 
American   school,   moi 
you  know  what  I  m<" 
His   poetry,   copious 
was  of  the  old  class 
and  often  unintellig 
poet  with  hardly  s\ 
ings.  He  was  a  mer 
contemporary,  Aldei 
once  called  in  his 
Age  of  American  L 

And  to  sum  it 
by  a  fellow  critic,  T 
of  pleasure,  and  wh 
called  him  the  Poet 
He  left  a  strong 
deep  perhaps,  sine 
flow  more  rapidly 
place  too  rapidly 
summed  perfectly 
and   development 
meant  to  tfiis  coun 


AUSTRO-GERMAN 
CUSTOMS  UNION 
ROUSES  EUROPE 

Vienna  Urges  Others  to  Join 
as  Answer  to  Protests 

on  Plan. 

— 

CZECHS   VIOLENTLY   OPPOSED 

Briand  Starts  Inquiry  Into  Move 

— Curtius  Sees  Envoys  in  Drive 

for  Approval. 

By    \£HIT    BURXETT. 

Special  Cable  Dispatch  to  THE  Sex. 
Copyright,     1931,     by    Tlie     New     York    Sun 

Foreign  Service. 

VIENNA,  March  23.— The  declara 
tion  by  Germany  and  Austria  of  their 
willingness  to  create  a  customs 
agreement  between  themselves  and 
invite  other  nations  to  join-thus 
making  a  sort  of  European  union  in 
line  with  Aristide  Briand's  idea,  but 
with  its  initiative  centers  in  central 
TTI,...  ,,,  +^/iair  tVio  most  discussed 


A    MADRIGAL   OF  ASPETOOK. 


Call  it  river  or  call  it  brook, 
Give  me   the  shady  Aspetook! 
Far-heard  within  the  Summer  hush, 
The   music  of  its  prattling  rush 
Robs  not  the  valley  of  repose; 
And  whether  it  pauses  or  whether  it 

flows, 

It  makes  a  never-ceasing  call 
To  the  urchins  of  dreamy  Merryall. 

The  boy  in  wild-grape-scented  June 
Through    open    windows    hears    the 

tune, 

And,   caught   in  the   thrall   of  Aspe 
took, 

ForUonging  cannot  see  his  book; 
His  hope  plays  truant  to  his  fear. 
Seasons  there  are  for  sled  and  ball, 
But  Aspetook  through  all  the  year 
Beckons  the  boys  of  Merryall. 

Past  the  thick  refuge  of  the  deer, 
Yet  within  sound  of  chanticleer, 
Through  green-arched  tunnels  of  de 
light 

It  breaks  into  the  sunny  air 
To  greet  the  bathers  of  "Monverre"; 
Then    hurries    round    the    rocks    In 

flight,  » 

As   though   the   world   were   waiting 

all 
For  news  of  drowsy  Merryall! 

Some  day  my  feet  will  follow  down 
Its  gentler  current  toward  the  sea, 
To  find  its  merge  by  Milford  town 
Where  calms  of  Housatonic  be. 
Today  I'll  mount  through  shade  and 

gleam, 
Wade     my     cool     way     against     the 

stream, 

And  challenge  every  swirl  and  fall 
Of  Aspetook  to  Merryall. 

ROBERT    UNDERWOOD   JOHNSON. 


20234 


A     000  688  999   " 


SERVICES  TODAY" 
FOR  DR.  JOHNSON 

Dr.  F.  H.  Berg  to  Officiate  at 

Rites  in  New  York  University 

Chapel  in  the  Bronx 


MANY  LEADERS  TO  ATTEND 


Mayor  La  Guardia,   Dr.   Butler, 

Gov.  Cross  and  Dr.  Phelps 

Among  Those  on  List 


Distinguished  representatives  of 
the  arts  and  of  letters,  public  offi 
cials  and  educators  will  attend  the 
funeral  service  today  at  4  P.  M.  for 
Robert  Underwood  Johnson,  poet 
and  director  of  the  Hall  of  Fame, 
in  the  chapel  of  New  York  Uni 
versity,  University  Heights,  at  181st 
Street,  the  Bronx.  Burial  will  be  at 
12:45  P.  M.  tomorrow  at  Stock- 
bridge,  Mass. 

Dr.  Irving  Husted  Berg,  New 
York  University  chaplain  and  dean 
of  the  College  of  Arts  and  Pure 
Science,  will  officiate  at  the  serv 
ice.  Dr.  John  H.  Finley,  editor  of 
THB  NKW  YORK  TIMES,  a  friend  of 
Dr.  Johnson,  will  read  a  poem  by 
Alexander  Pope,  which  Dr.  John 
son  requested  be  read  at  his  fu 
neral  service. 

Honorary  pallbearers  and  the  in 
stitutions  they   represent   will    be: 
Academy  of  Arts  and  Letters,  Dr. 
Nicholas  Murray  Butler,  Governor 
Wilbur    L.    Cross    of    Connecticut, 
Charles   Downer   Hazen,    Dr.    Wil 
liam  Lyon  Phelps,  Royal  Cortissoz, 
Herbert  Adams,   Archer   M.   Hunt-  , 
Ington    and    Adolph    A.    Weinman.  ; 
National  Institute  of  Arts  and  Let- 
:ers.  Dr.  Walter  Damrosch,  Henry  J 
3.  Canby,  Arthur  Train  and  Harri- 
lon    S.    Morris.      New    York    Uni 
versity,    Chancellor    Harry    Wood- 
mrn  Chase  and  Finley  J.  Shepard.  ' 
Among  those   expected  to  attend 


the  services  are :  Mayor  La  Guardia, 
Robert  I.  Aitken,  Maxwell  Ander 
son,  Chester  Beach,  Gifford  Beal, 
Stephen  Vincent  Beaet,  William 
Rose  Benet,  Robert  Bridges,  How 
ard  Brockway,  George  Elmer 
Brown,  Owen  Da  via,  William  A. 
Delano,  John  Erskine,  Barry  Faulk 
ner,  John  Flanagan,  William  J. 
Glackens,  John  Gregory,  Albert  L. 
Groll,  Jules  Guerin,  Clayton  Hamil 
ton,  Brian  Hooker,  Philip  James. 

Also  Carl  Paul  Jennewein,  John 
C.  Johansen,  William  Mitchell  Ken 
dall,  Leon  Kroll,  Lee  Lawrie, 
Ernest  Lawson,  Walter  Lippmann, 
DeWitt  Lockman,  Hermon  A.  Mac- 
Neil  Paul  Manship,  Edward  Mc- 
Cartan,  Ernest  C.  Peixotto,  Ernest 
Pool,  Ernest  David  Roth,  F.  Well 
ington  Ruckstull,  Ernest  Schelling, 
Harry  Rowe  Shelley,  John  Sloan, 
Eugene  Speicher,  Albert  Sterner, 
Albert  Stoessel,  Whitney  Warren, 
Harry  W.  Watrous,  Irvin  R.  Wiles, 
Ezra  Winter  and  Mahonri  M. 
Young. 

Also  the  Misses  Cecilia  Beaux, 
Rachel  Crothers,  and  Edna  Ferber, 
and  Mrs.  Jffhn  C.  Johansen  and 
Mrs.  Bessie  Boxinoh. 

Faculty,  student,  alumni  and  ad 
ministrative  representatives  of  the 
university  ajso  will  attend. 

Dr.  Johnson  died  on  Thursday  in 
his  home"  at  327  Lexington  Avenue. 
He  was  84  years  old. 


